The Bigger Picture
by AJ Wesley
Summary: A hunt gone wrong leaves Dean injured and Sam with no choice but to seek help as a winter storm hits and the hunters become the hunted.


A/N: Greetings! Just when you thought I'd fallen off the face of the earth, I'm back. This story is a different one for me. While there is still whumpage - Dean this time! - this fic is written in first person, from an outsider POV. It's something I wanted to try, so I hope you'll give it a shot. Hope you enjoy it!**  
**

**The Bigger Picture**

By AJ Wesley

_For K Hanna, my dear friend. Happy Birthday!_

**oooOOOooo_  
_**

A cabin in the woods, no one around for miles, peace and quiet, no TV, a pile of books, lots of tea… What more could I possibly ask for? I'd come here to get away from it all. The stress of work, the friends and family who meant well telling me the man I'd spent ten years of my life with was a jerk and didn't know a good thing when he'd had it, the…the…

Damn it, it always came back to Steve. Tossing my book aside, I snuggled down into the couch and pulled the blanket tighter around me. Wind rattled the windows and ice pelted the cabin. The sound of it alone made me cold. The fire could probably use another log, but I just didn't feel like moving—

A noise on the porch had me sitting bolt upright, the blanket puddling around my hips. What the…? I sat still, listening. For several moments, it was quiet, only the sound of the snowstorm reaching my ears. Then I heard it again: something was on the porch. I stood slowly, uncertain what to do. It could be an animal seeking shelter from the storm. Could be…

I turned and cat-footed into the kitchen and quietly slid open one of the drawers. The extra-sharp filleting knife would have to do. Weapon in hand, I moved silently back to the door. There was a rustling sound coming from the other side now. And maybe…a gasp?

A knock on the door practically frightened me out of my skin, and I stumbled back a few steps. Who—?

"_Hello_?" someone called. A man. He knocked again.

Oh, God. I stood frozen in place, my mind supplying me with any number of reasons not to open the door. I'd watched all those horror movies with Steve. Could be an escaped killer or mental patient, bank robber, rapist—

"_Please, we need help!_"

Or just someone who needed help. The voice sounded urgent, desperate. I responded to it automatically, moving before I even realized it. If someone really was stuck out in this weather, they would need help. I took hold of the door handle, brought the knife up—just in case—and opened the door. And stared at them through the screen.

There were two of them. One had his hand raised as if he was about to pound on the frame again. He was breathing heavily, his breath condensing in great clouds as he exhaled. He pulled his hand back to grab the wrist hooked over his shoulder. The arm belonged to the second one, who didn't look like he'd get anywhere on his own. His legs were bent at the knees, and he was hanging limply against the first guy. I couldn't see much of his face, just the short hair that seemed to be frozen into tiny spikes.

"Please," the first stranger repeated, his gaze flicking to the knife in my hand, then back to my eyes. "My brother needs help."

It was ridiculous that I could even consider letting them in. I could hear my mother's voice berating me at the thought. As a kid, I had always brought home injured animals to care for, nursed sick or drunk friends back to health. Always got warned about the dangers of doing it, too. This was quite a bit different, but there was something in the way the guy was looking at me, almost beseechingly. Fear and worry like that couldn't be faked, could it?

Frosty air tossed long hair into the first guy's face and whipped past him, blasting into the cabin. I shivered. Drawing a breath, I reached for the latch on the screen door and unlocked it quickly, before I changed my mind. _Please, God, don't let them be murderers…_

As I pushed open the screen door, I noticed the way some of the tension seemed to leave the long-haired guy's body, and he offered me a grateful look with a hint of a smile.

"Thank you," he said on a breath, then shifted his brother around the door. The movement drew a gasp from the other. "Easy, Dean. We're almost there. Then you can rest, okay?"

The words were spoken softly, meant for Dean's ears alone, but being so close I couldn't help but hear. The warmth in the voice eased some of my fears. I closed the door without ever turning my back on them, though.

"You can use the couch," I said, and received another "thanks" in return. With a nod, I headed for the fireplace. _Definitely_ needed another log now.

As I passed the brothers, I saw that Dean was a little more aware than I'd thought, glazed eyes wandering the room. He was trying to walk of his own accord, trying to keep in step with his brother, dragging one foot forward, then the other. The hand that had been dangling at his side lifted to clench in his brother's shirt. "S-Sammy," he stuttered, "d'you g-get it? 'S it d-dead?"

Dead? Was _what_ dead? Oh, dear Lord.

"Shhh." Sammy pried the fingers loose, eased Dean onto the couch, and kneeled beside him. As he spoke, he gently removed his brother's jacket and set it aside. "We'll talk about it later, all right? Right now, I need to check your leg—"

But Dean wasn't appeased. He fought the hands trying to push him down, grimacing with every movement of his right leg, and talking through clenched teeth. "No. C-can't. We have t-to—"

"Dean—"

"Listen t' m-me—"

"Come on, man. I'm freezing."

And at once, Dean stopped his struggles. He allowed himself to be eased onto his side, let his legs be lifted onto the couch. Taut muscles loosened as he heaved a sigh, his body listing toward the edge of the cushions. His brother caught him and lowered him onto his stomach with a gentleness that surprised me.

I tossed a couple more logs on the fire, then headed back to my unexpected guests, stopping just out of reach. "What do you need…uh…Sammy?"

His head was bowed and he was breathing hard, but a hint of a laugh huffed out. "Sam," he said. Then he looked up and added, "Please." He glanced around a moment, as if mentally making a list. "Uh…blankets would be great. Soap and some warm water? And any first aid supplies you have. Towels." He looked at me suddenly, almost sheepishly. "Sorry."

"It's okay," I told him as I crossed the room to where my bed stood in the corner. Underneath was a basket with extra blankets. I grabbed them and brought them back, setting them on the arm of the couch by Dean's feet. "You must be the younger brother," I said.

"It's that obvious?" Sam reached for the blankets, his movements slow but far from steady. He was shaking like a leaf, but one by one, all the covers were spread over Dean.

"Well," I headed for the kitchen and turned on the electric kettle, then grabbed all the dish towels I could find in the drawers, "the nickname was a dead giveaway. My younger brother just turned thirty, but he'll still always be Danny to me." I didn't know why I was telling that to a complete stranger, but it made me feel better to talk. And even though Sam's attention was focused on his brother, he still seemed to be listening.

I gathered the rest of the supplies Sam had requested and carried them to the couch. As I set the bowl of warm water on the floor within Sam's reach, I caught sight of Dean's leg—the only part of him that wasn't covered besides his head—and gasped. It was a bloody mess from just below the back of his knee down to mid-calf. Several strips of material were bound around the wounds, but they were soaked through. Sam was working to get them off.

"What happened?" I asked.

There was a brief pause before the answer came. "It was a wolf."

"A wolf did that?" I asked, incredulous. "But I thought…wolves don't attack people like that…do they?"

"This one did." Sam's shaking hands weren't cooperating. "It came after me and Dean pushed me out of the way and it…" He gave up on the knot, shoving his clasped hands between his thighs in an attempt to warm them. A muttered "stupid" escaped his mouth before he caught himself.

The stubborn knot, his hands, or Dean? I soaked one of the dish towels in the basin and offered it to him. "Here."

A hand that dwarfed mine reached slowly for the towel. Sam nodded, wincing a little as the warmth touched his skin. Both brothers were wearing layers, but neither was really dressed for this weather. Although, the storm _had_ come out of nowhere. Dean wasn't shivering so violently anymore, but Sam was, even though he was trying to hide it. When he let his guard down, his teeth chattered.

"Sam, maybe you should—"

"I need to get this cleaned out," he interrupted, gently but firmly. "It's been too long already, but I didn't have a chance before. We couldn't stop. It was…" His eyes widened a little and he looked at me. "Do you have any salt?"

Okay, left field. "What?"

"Salt. Table salt, rock salt. Anything."

"Uh…yeah."

"Good. Look. I need you to do something for me, okay?" He looked nervous, scared, but managed to keep his voice steady.

I nodded.

"Get the salt and pour a line of it at the base of the door, and the back door if you have one, and on every windowsill, okay?"

"But—"

"_Please_."

I wasn't sure why, but I found myself agreeing to the request. I stood and headed for the kitchen, pulled the canister of Morton's from the cabinet, and set about my task.

The sound of trickling water told me Sam had gotten back to work, but it was the gasp from Dean that made my stomach clench. I had rented this cabin for a week, but _I_ felt like the intruder as I listened.

"Son of a—"

"M'sorry, all right? Just, please, you gotta hold still, Dean."

Another strained cry, then, "You suck."

"Yeah, I know."

I almost laughed, but the reminders of Dean's pain played havoc with my insides. I found myself wishing there was more I could do for them. I wasn't a mother, and I certainly wasn't old enough to be _their_ mother, but their distress was bringing out those maternal instincts, you know?

A string of…_colorful_ words came from Dean's mouth next, and I couldn't help but give them a glance. It was Sam who looked embarrassed, offering me a sheepish shrug in apology.

I finished with the front windows and the small one in the bathroom, so I headed for the back door, the lean-to. As I passed the couch, I saw that the bandages lay on a towel on the floor, the knots untouched. Dean's boots and socks had been removed, and his pant leg had been slit to the knee. I hadn't seen a knife, but it was obvious one had been used. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. But before I could give it any more thought, I caught sight of those wounds and froze.

Sam had gotten them cleaned pretty well, from the looks of it, but they were still bleeding, blood welling up in some places more than others. But the claw marks themselves… There were four of them, and they looked…almost perfectly incised, not jagged like I'd expected. A wolf? Really?

I kept trying to put the pieces together as I finished with the door. I wanted to trust them, I did. But I knew there was something Sam wasn't telling me. But now was not the time to ask. Sam was pouring the contents of a flask onto the cuts, but Dean wasn't reacting to the pain anymore. What I could see of his face was deathly pale. His right hand had moved out from under the blankets and was resting near his head, fingers twitching every so often.

I wondered at the dubious contents of the flask. "If you need alcohol—"

"It's not…" Sam interrupted, but then paused. "It's just…purified water," he finished, watching the injury intently. After a moment, he sighed with what looked like relief and gave the back of his brother's thigh two light pats, like _you did good_ or something.

Quite the enigma, these two. Then I noticed the basin. "Oh! Let me get you some fresh water."

"I think I'm good, thanks," Sam said as he pulled a tube of antibacterial cream from the first-aid kit.

I took it anyway and rinsed it out, washed my hands, then grabbed two mugs from the cabinet and a tin of cocoa. Preparing those only took a couple of minutes, and I left them on the counter to cool a little. By the time I returned to the couch, Sam had already begun bandaging.

"These could probably use some stitches," he muttered, "but…"

"I'm sorry," I offered. I didn't have any supplies like that. "I'm lucky if I can sew a button on."

That got a little laugh. "No, no. It's okay. It'll be okay." Trying to convince himself? He looked up at me then, eyebrows rising over muddied brown-green eyes. "Thank you." It looked like he wanted to say more but was struggling for the words.

I saved him the trouble. "You're welcome." And I think it was that moment I decided I didn't need my fish-filleting knife after all.

Sam was beginning to shake in earnest now. Dean had been wearing a leather jacket that had protected him somewhat from the snow and ice, but Sam's jacket was soaked as was, I'm sure, the cotton hoodie underneath. "Would…" I felt awkward asking. "Would you like me to hang your jacket by the fire?"

I only got a nod this time. Now that his brother was taken care of, the urgency was obviously fading, taking Sam's strength with it. Outwardly, anyway. Something told me he would rally in an instant if his brother needed him. Sam slowly peeled off the top two layers, but there were at least two more underneath. The ice in his hair had melted, leaving it plastered to his head and dripping down his face and neck. He looked like he was ready to collapse.

I quickly set up a line near the fireplace using two kitchen chairs and some clothesline from the lean-to. I grabbed Dean's jacket from the back of the couch and hung all three garments over the line. "Socks and shoes?" I asked over my shoulder. They had to be soaked, too.

Sam moved like his body ached from head to toe. He shifted so he was sitting on the floor at the arm of the couch by his brother's head and pulled one long leg across the other to remove the sopping-wet sneaker. I gathered Dean's in the meantime, set them by the fire, then collected one of the blankets off my bed and the two mugs from the kitchen.

Sam was leaning back against the couch, his knees drawn up, red feet firmly planted on the floor. His head tipped back against the armrest and his eyes were closed. That's when I noticed the scars. Just the remnants of small cuts, really, that his hair had hidden. There were several around his right eye, and now that I looked, I could see one on the bridge of his nose. What had these guys been through?

"Sam?"

He opened his eyes but didn't move otherwise. I held out the mug. He did sit up then and accepted the cup with a grateful smile, wrapping his hands around its warmth and succumbing to a shiver. I set my own mug on the table beside the armchair, then laid the blanket over Sam's legs.

"Thanks," he said again. "I, uh…didn't even ask your name."

"Jennifer," I told him. "Jen." I offered him a smile as I picked up his shoes and socks—I was used to picking up after messy little brothers—and set them beside Dean's. Then I settled cross-legged in the armchair across from them and picked up my cocoa. Maybe now I could find out what was really going on. "So…what were you guys doing out here so late? It's, what, after one in the morning?"

Sam swallowed a mouthful of hot chocolate, closing his eyes as it went down. When he opened them again, he looked directly at me. "We were hunting that wolf. It's killed a lot of people around here. You didn't hear about it?"

"No." What was that saying about _if it's too good to be true_? "And here I thought I got a good deal on the cabin because the owner thought I was cute." I shrugged, only half-kidding. "Did you get it? The wolf?"

Sam swallowed another mouthful, then shook his head slowly. "Dean wounded it. I think that's the only reason we got away. But it's not dead."

"So it's still out there."

A nod, then, "I'm really sorry for all this. I just… We didn't have anywhere else to go." He looked so tired right at that moment. Worried.

"It's okay," I assured. "Really. It was getting kinda lonely around here anyway. If you need anything, just let me know."

"We really appreciate that," he said, tucking his bare feet into the blanket as another shiver coursed through him.

"There's a shower if you want. Might warm you up faster." After the words left my mouth, I felt kinda funny suggesting that, but Sam just shook his head.

"I don't want to leave him just yet." He turned his head to look at Dean.

I followed his gaze, seeing the slow rise and fall of the blankets as Dean breathed. The paleness of his skin made the freckled across his nose stand out, and…he had a scar, too. On his forehead. It looked like it had been much deeper than Sam's… "I'm sure he'll be okay, Sam. You did a great job on his leg. You have medical training?"

He shrugged. "Not really. Just field medicine. Our dad taught us."

"He's a hunter, too?"

There was the slightest pause before Sam answered. "He was." His gaze fell to the floor, eyes unfocused, and I knew.

"I'm sorry. Recently?"

"Couple of weeks."

A couple of weeks? That could explain the scars…

"It's just us now. I think that's why Dean—" Sam stopped himself, his eyes meeting mine briefly before he looked away again. Looked at Dean. In the glow of the firelight, his eyes shone with the moisture that had collected there.

I shouldn't have asked. I wanted to help them, to do something, anything, but I felt so useless. Maybe the best I could offer was to let them rest. I unfolded my legs and slipped from the chair. Sam watched my movements from the corner of his eye as I bent to pick up his empty mug. "Try to get some sleep, okay?" I said softly.

Sam didn't respond. He was gazing at the fire, but I'm not sure that was what he was seeing.

With a quiet sigh, I headed for the kitchen with both mugs. I washed them out in the sink and straightened up a bit, slipped the filleting knife back into the drawer, then headed back to the couch to see if Sam needed anything.

Apparently not. His head was once again on the armrest, and had rolled to the right as he'd succumbed to much-needed sleep. But I noticed that Dean's hand had shifted from lying on the couch beside him to the edge of the cushions, his fingers just brushing the sleeve of Sam's shirt. Sure, he could have shifted, his hand just landing there, but I had a feeling it was more than that. Like that simple contact, that knowing his brother was safe and sound, was what allowed Dean to relax and sleep.

I tip-toed over to my bed and laid down, wondering what I was going to do. I couldn't fall asleep with two strangers in my cabin. I mean, that would be crazy, right? Maybe if I read my book, or had a cup of tea or…maybe…

**oooOOOooo**

"_Dean_!"

The urgency in the call startled me, and I was rolling off the bed before I was truly awake. So much for not falling asleep. Guess I trusted my guests more than I'd realized. I hurried over to the couch to find Sam on his knees, one hand on his brother's forehead. Dean's skin was flushed, and he struggled weakly, trying to push Sam away, push off the blankets.

"Dean. Hey," Sam called, worry coloring his words. "No, no, no."

"Sam?"

"He's burning up," he told me as he began pulling blankets off his brother. "Dean? You hear me?"

"Dad?" It was rough and weak but still clear, and it stopped Sam cold.

"No, man," he corrected gently, leaning over the prone form. "It's me. It's Sam."

Dean's eyes were open, but they were red and wet. "Sammy…"

"Yeah."

"No…Dad…I can't…_please_." A tear slipped from the corner of Dean's eye, but Sam's thumb quickly caught it and wiped it away. Dean shook his head. "Sam…"

"I'm right here, Dean."

But Dean didn't seem to know that. He repeated his brother's name, shaking his head in denial of something only he was privy to.

Sam bit his lip, placing one hand on his brother's arm and one on his hip, and carefully pushing him onto his side. Mindful of the bandaged leg, Sam eased him onto his back, then pulled him up. Dean's head dropped weakly onto Sam's shoulder, hands falling to his sides when Sam let go.

"Come on, man. We've got to get you cooled down."

Cooled down. Right. Water. I could do that. I refilled the basin from earlier with cool water this time and carefully brought it back in time to see Sam slip the wet t-shirt over Dean's head and toss it aside. He cradled Dean's neck and slowly lowered him back down to the couch. Shifting, he grabbed the edge of the one blanket he had left on his brother, but stopped when he saw me, basin in hand.

"Do you have some washcloths? Any more towels?" he asked, taking the water and setting it on the floor.

I nodded and went to search the bathroom. When I returned with what I had, I saw the pile of clothes on the floor. Sam had used the privacy to remove Dean's clothes. All of them. I felt the blush creep into my cheeks.

"Jen?"

I blinked, saw Sam looking at me. "Hmm?"

He held up the two hand towels. "Mind if I rip these?"

I shook my head.

After a moment's hesitation, Sam slowly pulled a knife from a sheath I hadn't noticed on his belt before. My eyes focused on the gleaming blade as he worked.

"Soak these for me, okay?"

The soft-spoken words broke through my thoughts. Sam was holding out the strips of cloth with one hand while the other effortlessly sheathed the knife. I took the strips and dropped them into the basin, pushing them under the water to make sure they were completely soaked. Sam picked up one of the washcloths, squeezing it a little before folding it and placing it gently across his brother's forehead. The other strips he wrapped around Dean's wrists and ankles.

Dean writhed weakly beneath the blanket, his rambling incoherent now. To me, anyway. Maybe Sam understood it, I don't know. He responded to every call, every plea with soothing words as he used the second washcloth to bathe the heated skin, trying to lower the raging fever.

I changed the water several times before Dean finally quieted, settling back to sleep with the smallest of whimpers. He was shivering again, so Sam pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. Then he leaned his elbows on the edge of the couch and dropped his head into his hands. He held it there a moment before dragging his hands down his face and letting his breath go in a shaky sigh.

"Is he going to be okay?" I asked softly.

"He'll beat this," Sam assured me. He pulled the washcloth from Dean's forehead, laying his hand there instead. "Still pretty warm." He chewed his lower lip a moment, then turned to me. "Do you have any spices?"

I wasn't sure where he was going with that. "Um…sure." I headed for the kitchen and opened the cabinet where I had stashed all the trimmings for a modest Thanksgiving dinner. "What do you—?" It was the first time I'd seen him standing at his full height. The guy was huge. Had to be a foot taller than me. "—need," I managed to finish.

Sam stepped up to the cabinet and poked through the contents until he found something he could use.

I looked at the jar in his hand. "Saffron?"

"Saffron tea helps reduce fever," he explained. "Would you mind putting on some more water?"

I nodded, grabbing the kettle to refill it. "Something else your dad taught you?"

Sam leaned back against the counter. "You pick up stuff." His gaze drifted back to his brother. "But Dean taught me pretty much everything."

"You guys are pretty close, huh?" I set the kettle to boil.

A one-shoulder shrug. "Dad wasn't home very much. We moved around a lot, so there wasn't a whole lot of opportunity to make friends. It was just me and m'brother most of the time."

Sounded like there was no mom in the picture, but I wasn't going to ask. I found my infuser in one of the drawers and filled it with the spice. Saffron tea. Huh. Learn something new every day.

Dean shifted on the couch with a small moan of discomfort. Sam pushed off the counter and made a beeline for him. I grabbed one of the mugs from earlier and set the infuser in it before joining Sam. He was once again on his knees beside the couch, spreading another blanket over his brother. Dean was shivering nearly as much as he'd been when he'd first arrived.

"S-Sam?"

Sam pulled the compress from his brother's forehead and smiled down at him. "Hey, Dean. You with me?"

Dean stared up at him, his bow furrowing with concern. "Sammy, I…c-can't…"

"Can't what, Dean?"

"Won't…" He was breathing faster, clearly upset. His arms cleared the blankets and he fisted both hands in Sam's shirt.

"Hey, hey, easy, easy," Sam soothed, grasping his brother's wrists.

"'Kay?" Somehow, Dean found the strength to lift himself up, just enough to bring him eye to eye with Sam. Whatever he was asking, it was important to him.

Sam's eyebrows drew together. "Okay," he said hesitantly, but it was obvious he hadn't a clue.

That didn't seem to matter to Dean, though. He sank back onto the sofa, apparently having gotten the answer he was looking for. "Can't," he sighed, "…kill…" His grip loosened, his hands falling to his chest.

Sam tucked them under the covers. "You let me worry about the amarok, Dean. Just rest, okay?"

The kettle clicked off, startling both Sam and I, and he looked up at me almost as if he'd forgotten I was there.

"I'll get the tea," I told him, and hurried back to the kitchen. My nerves were shot and I hadn't really slept. Maybe that was why my stomach was in knots. It couldn't have anything to do with an amarok, whatever that was. I poured the water into the mug and watched as the red strands turned the liquid gold I didn't know how long the stuff was supposed to steep, so I brought the mug back with the infuser still inside. My hand was shaking a little when I handed it to Sam.

"Amarok is Inuit for wolf," he explained, like he'd read my mind or something. He carefully slid an arm under Dean's shoulders and lifted him up. A grumble of protest was the response. "I need you to drink this, man, then you can go back to sleep, all right?"

"Wha'sit?"

"Tea."

Dean's head slumped onto Sam's shoulder, but with some gentle coaxing, Sam managed to get his brother upright and drinking. If Dean's puckered face was any indication, he wasn't too happy with the brew. But I had a feeling Sam could probably get big brother to do just about anything for him.

After a couple of minutes, Dean lifted a trembling hand and pushed at the mug, willing it away. Sam complied, seemingly satisfied with what had been consumed. He lowered Dean back down to the cushions and tucked him in.

There was a bit of a chill in the air, and I glanced at the fireplace. I really hated to go out and get more wood, but… "I'll be right back."

I grabbed my coat from its peg in the lean-to, then pulled on my boots. The wood pile was right out back, but it had been snowing all night so I didn't think my slippers would cut it. I opened the door and stepped over the salt—I never did ask what that was for—and into the snow.

Wind blew in gusts, swirls of white making it difficult to see. A few more steps to the left and the fire wood came into view…along with what looked like two red eyes staring at me from the other side of the pile.

It growled. I screamed.

I really have no idea what happened next. Suddenly Sam was there, tucking me behind him and blocking my view of the thing. There was the sound of a gunshot, and another horrific growl like…nothing I'd ever heard before.

And then it was quiet. Except for my breathing. "Where…where is it?" I didn't even care that there was a gun in Sam's hand. "Did you get it?"

He stood poised to shoot again, listening, watching, waiting. "I don't know."

I wasn't sure which question he was answering, but I didn't like it either way. That thing was no wolf. But before I could ask, the sound of wood splintering grabbed our attention.

Sam spun toward the back door. "Dean!" he bellowed and broke into a run. I followed. Once inside, Sam paused only long enough to point at the doorway. "Fix that salt line and stay here!"

I slammed the door shut, locked it, and moved the salt back into place with my foot. I grabbed the only thing in reach that could serve as a weapon—a shovel—and peered around the doorway into the main room.

The front door was wide open, practically off its hinges, and standing on the porch was the biggest wolf I've ever seen. I mean, the size of a bear. It was as white as the snow except for the black of its gums as it bared its teeth at the brothers.

Sam had placed himself between the animal and Dean, a determined sentinel. The gun in his hand was silver with a pearl handle, and was pointed steadily at the…amarok. But why wasn't he shooting it? The thing's head was low, like it intended to pounce, but neither hunter nor prey moved. A standoff.

Still on the couch, Dean was trying to push himself up on his elbows, but his arms wouldn't hold the weight. "Sam…" he croaked, clearly not appreciative of little brother putting himself in harm's way.

The creature looked down at the line of salt that was beginning to scatter in the wind but was still unbroken. It growled again, deep in its throat, and lifted its gaze to Sam, almost… calculating. The red gaze slid to Dean, eyes narrowing. _Thinking_. Then with a huff, it backed down off the porch and disappeared into the snow.

It took a little longer for Sam to relax, though. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Dean was all right, then hurried to the door and closed it. The latch was broken. A quick scan of the room gave him an answer, and he dragged my armchair over to prop against it. It wouldn't hold if the wolf attacked, but at least it kept out the cold. The fire was getting low; hopefully it would last a while.

Dean heaved for breath and blinked his eyes as if trying to focus. He was looking around as if trying to remember where he was and what had brought him there. "Sammy?"

Sam fixed the salt line by the front door, then returned to his brother's side, the hair hanging into his eyes enforcing his younger-sibling status. "Hey."

"You okay?" they asked each other in unison.

Sam smiled. "You're the one laid out on the couch, you jerk."

"Bitch," Dean said on a breath, his eyes sliding closed.

Sam huffed a laugh, clasping his brother's arm fondly.

Setting my weapon aside, I stepped back into the main cabin, hugging myself against a chill that came from more than just the cold. "Why didn't you shoot it?" I couldn't help asking.

Sam looked up, his mouth opening, then closing again. He pulled the blankets back up to his brother's chin, then settled on the floor. "Jen, sit down."

Uh-oh. Didn't like the sound of that. But I obeyed, dropping onto the rug and hugging my knees to my chest.

"Look…" Sam's gaze slid downward as he considered his words. "I'm sorry we got you mixed up in this. I didn't think… I just needed…" He sighed, looked up at me. "We'll get it, all right?"

I found myself nodding. "How do you kill something like that?"

"Silver bullet to the heart."

"Like a werewolf?"

A small smile. "Yeah. Just like that."

"So…" I thought back to the amarok standing in the doorway. "You didn't shoot because you couldn't get it in the heart."

"Its head was too low. It knows. It's smart. Ruthless. It won't give up until it makes the kill. It's after Dean, but it's not going to get him. No way." The hazel eyes were fierce, determined. Sam meant it.

"What do we do?"

Sam dragged a hand down his face, letting it linger over his mouth. His gaze darted about the room, settling in specific places for a moment, then moving on: the open first-aid kit and bandages still on the floor, the pile of clothes beside it, the basin, the extra blankets. Then finally his attention settled on Dean.

I think I actually saw the moment it came to him, the expressive face not hiding much. When he looked back at me, I leaned forward, ready to help.

"Do you have any candles?"

_So_ not what I was expecting.

**oooOOOooo**

It was nerve-racking, just waiting like sitting ducks. Waiting for the amarok to show. I had lit every candle I had and placed them all about the cabin like Sam had instructed. All different scents: vanilla, which had been left in the cabin just in case, and then the various fruit and floral scents I had brought. It smelled pretty bad, like walking into a candle store. To top it off, I had coated the entire bathroom, occupants including, in Hawaiian Ginger, my body spray. Nauseating. But that was the idea. It wouldn't completely cover the scent, Sam had said, but it might confuse the thing.

It was dark now; I wasn't quite sure where the day had gone. The snow had finally stopped, but the wind was picking up again, the temperature outside dropping.

I peered through the cracked-open door of the bathroom, watching for any signs of our unwanted guest, my heart pounding so hard, I could feel it in my ears. I could see the couch with its piles of blankets, and the door to the lean-to, the smudge of blood on the frame. I couldn't believe they were doing this. Not that Dean had much say in the matter, but geez…

I had just convinced myself nothing was going to happen when there was a noise from the front door. A scrape, soft but definite, like a chair moving across the floor. Slowly. The damned thing was trying to sneak in. It took its time.

I held my breath.

And then it was standing there, white coat gleaming in the candlelight, red eyes scanning, almost glowing. It sniffed the air, then blew through its nose. Or maybe that was a sneeze. Sam: one, amarok: zero.

It crept forward, once again keeping its head low, scanning, sniffing. On the hunt. It approached the couch, baring its teeth but not making a sound.

The swiftness of its attack was mesmerizing. It pounced, sinking its teeth into the blankets and what lay beneath. I mourned the loss of my pillow—no way it had survived—but breathed a silent prayer of thanks that Dean wasn't the recipient of the killer strike. His shirts, which Sam had wrapped the pillow in, probably had teeth marks, though. Sam: two.

Except now, the thing was incensed. No longer concerned with being stealthy, the creature barked in its rage, saliva dripping from its jowls as if it could taste its prey. It gathered itself slowly, once again sniffing the air, growling constantly in the back of its throat.

Behind me, nestled in the tub, Dean stirred, some innate sense alerting him that there was danger nearby. I shifted around and gently laid a hand over his mouth, just in time to cut off a call for his brother. His eyes opened, and it devastated me to see the panic there, but I held a finger to my lips as Sam had instructed, and after a moment, received a nod in response. I pulled my hand away and he remained silent, but the fear lingered. He was afraid for Sam.

Yeah. Me, too.

I turned back to the door and my breath caught. The amarok-wolf had taken a few steps toward the bathroom. Toward _us_. Another step. And another. Then its ears perked like it heard something. Its headed whipped around, gaze settling on the lean-to.

Then it saw the blood. With a howl, it leaped at the door, slamming it open with its head, leaving no time for anyone hiding to prepare. It snarled in the doorway, ready to rip its victim to shreds.

Nothing.

I was just as surprised as the wolf. Washer and dryer, the pile of clothes I had left on the floor, my jacket, most of the blankets, the clothesline with… I looked up. Dean's jeans and the bandages that had been wrapped around his leg were hanging from the line.

The amarok sniffed and looked up—

—and Sam emerged from the pile of clothes, emptying an entire clip into the creature's chest.

With a howl, the amarok fell back, wobbling on its legs for a moment before collapsing to the floor. Dead. I hoped.

Frantic, Dean tried to push himself up, wincing when his leg hit the side of the tub. Frustrated with his inability to help, he yelled, "Sammy!"

"I'm okay, Dean," Sam called back, a bit breathless. "It's okay." He was sitting back against the washing machine, gun still aimed at the unmoving amarok. Not taking any chances.

Dean collapsed back into the pillow-lined tub, his strength gone. "Damn it, Sam," he said on a sigh, then fell silent.

I think I could honestly say I knew exactly what he meant.

It was a long time before Sam finally lowered his weapon and climbed to his feet. His number one priority now was obviously Dean. I moved out of the way as Sam entered the bathroom, palmed his brother's flushed forehead, then carefully lifted him out of the tub and carried him to the bed. My idea; Sam was too polite to assume that would be okay.

I'd just witnessed this guy kill a beast bent on ripping him and his brother to shreds, and now this shift to gentle giant was amazing. He lowered Dean to the mattress and got him settled.

Dean sighed as soon as his head hit the pillow. Sam mussed his hair gently, then glanced over his shoulder at the amarok. "I gotta take care of that thing. Keep an eye on him, okay?"

I nodded, flattered to be given that trust. I knew now it wasn't something that was given lightly, or very often.

So there was a bonfire. Far enough away from the cabin for safety, but close enough for me to see from the front window. Sam stood there, the flames keeping him warm, setting his skin aglow. He remained still, staring at the fire, and I wondered what he was thinking. Then his head bowed, stayed that way for a few moments, then rose again. He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets and remained there until the deed was done.

Sam finally returned to the cabin, succumbing to a full-body shiver at the sudden change in temperature. But his focus was once more on his brother. He dragged a kitchen chair to the side of the bed and sat down. Every move he made shouted exhaustion, but there was no way he was leaving Dean's side again. I made him another cup of hot chocolate, then let them be. I settled in my chair a few feet away, about as much privacy as I could offer in the small cabin.

Dean's fever broke a few hours before dawn, and the tension across Sam's shoulders disappeared, no longer warrior or protector, just little brother. He smiled for his sibling as Dean stirred, eyes blinking open.

"Y'all right?" Sam drawled, the Midwest accent coming through.

Dean didn't answer right away. He stared at the ceiling, considering the question. Gathering strength. Finally, he sighed. "Been better."

"Been worse."

"Point," Dean said with a nod. He closed his eyes. "Amarok?"

"Dead."

"Attaboy." Then his nose wrinkled up and he sniffed. "Why do I smell like a chick?"

Sam laughed at that, soft and easy. It was a nice sound. He glanced over at me then, smiled a smile that was all dimples, and mouthed "thank you."

And didn't that just make it all worthwhile?

**oooOOOooo**

They stayed with me a couple more days, just enough for Dean to get back on his feet. It was nice to see the real Dean, if a muted version. Flirty and fun, bright as the sunshine streaming through the windows. He seemed to derive the greatest joy from embarrassing his brother with stories from their childhood. He painted a different picture for me than Sam had that first night they'd shown up on my doorstep.

No. Not different. Enhanced. The stories complimented each other, just like the guys did. It was the bigger picture I was seeing, and it explained a lot. I listened as I cooked.

Sometime early that morning while Sam and Dean were still asleep, it had occurred to me that the next day was Thanksgiving. When I mentioned it later, I think they were as surprised as I. So I invited them to stay for dinner. We would celebrate today, because tomorrow, we were all leaving this place.

I learned something those last few days. First of all, I realized my friends were right. Steve was a jerk. There were better fish in the sea; Sam and Dean were proof. So my expectations were higher, and I knew I was an idiot for hiding away in this cabin in the middle of nowhere.

Second, and most importantly, they'd taught me a little more about family. Tomorrow, my place was with mine.

I didn't know where they would be tomorrow, or if I'd ever see them again, but something told me they'd be okay. They had each other's backs.

Fin


End file.
